The Black Book

It has been about 2 months since i started reading this book.. Presented by a friend on my birthday,the reading crawls at snail's pace.. Coincidentally though,reading as well as blogging have almost come to a standstill ever since i turned 22.. Not that I'd ever been a good writer..but at least i was good at jotting down random thoughts..which is what i struggle at,now..


Anyhow,back to Black..


After My Name is Red,I'd this huge reverence to Orhan Pamuk,which was why my dear friend took all the pains of hunting down this book which was then not to be found anywhere in Bangalore.If My Name Is Red was one of those books which i enjoyed reading,which i hated putting down, The Black Book thoroughly decieved me all time.. Although the book was famous/infamous for its complexity,I'd a subdued impression of the extent of intricacy any book could hold..But it was far beyond my expectations..


The story is all about the ongoing search of Galip for his wife Ruya,who on a fine day,has disappeared,for her ex-husband or for Celal,a popular newspaper journalist who also happens to be her step-brother..Although Ruya leaves an obscure parting note,which lets out no reason on her adieu,Galip sets on an investigation primarily out of his uncontrollable and scarcely returned love,and partly due to his unabated doubt on the fidelity of his wife,rather any house-wife,.which glints in some areas like,

"In my view,an intelligent husband makes a point of forgetting every man who sends his regards to his wife. Because-well,just in case. Especially if the woman in question is a housewife. If you rule out relatives and shopkeepers,that luckless creature we call the housewife is unlikely afterall to meet any man other than her own tedious husband. So if a gentleman does take the trouble to send her his regards,it will make her think,and she has plenty of time for that too.."
 

As his investigation progresses,he finds that Celal has disappeared too.. And he dares to be the imposture of Celal,occupying his home,wearing his clothes,answering his phone calls,even writing his columns,only to transform almost completely into an ever envied identity..


There were occasions when the literary ace of Pamuk left me awestruck as in,


"When catastrophe strikes,there can be no happier way of facing death. So let me cry out in anguish to a distant love:My darling,my beauty,my long suffering sweet,the disaster is fast approaching;so come to me,come to me now;wherever you happen to be at this moment- a smoke filled office,a messy blue bedroom,an onion scented kitchen in a house steaming with laundry-Know that the time has come,so come to me;let us draw the curtains against the disaster pressing upon us;as darkness encroaches,let us lock ourselves in a last embrace and silently await the hour of our death."


I'm just half way through.. Although it's not an easy read,it gives a pleasure beyond words to decipher the intricacies hidden in the beautifully weaved words of Pamuk. Salutes to the literary genius!!


Khuda Hafiz
~Gayathri~